


Boston

by ReaperWriter



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Inspired by Music, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 13:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7510774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReaperWriter/pseuds/ReaperWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year ago, Emma Swan walked out on her fairy tale happy ending. But when she calls his number just to hear his voice again, she get's the surprise of a lifetime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boston

**Author's Note:**

> So, I should be editing my original novel for a competition I am entering it into. But this damn thing demanded to be written. Whatever the muse wants, the muse gets.
> 
> Inspired by the lyric's of Blake Shelton's "Austin." OUAT is the property of ABC, Eddy and Adam. No money is being made from this fan work.

Upholstery on the crappy couch prickled the back of her legs like nettles. Emma Swan sighed and shifted, trying to get comfortable. The stupid thing came as part of the package on her furnished one-bedroom apartment, and she could neither replace it nor get the landlord to. Just as well, the discomfort an allegory for her life. She reached out the hand not holding her phone and picked up the tumbler of rum, tipping half of it down her throat and staring at the contact card on the little screen.

The two of them stared out at her, a selfie taken on a warm summer Maine day at the beach. His left arm around her shoulders, her blond hair tucked into his. Dark stubble shot through with ginger, and bright blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he laughed. Happiness exuded from the two people in the photo. They’d been happy…until she’d panicked. Until she’d let the flight of her fight or flight response win. Until she’d walked out, telling him it was too much and she’d needed to clear her mind.

A year came and went since that day, just two after her birthday. The surprise party he’d arranged had been the trigger, with all their friends and a ridiculous cake shaped like her yellow VW, and the ring. He’d not even done that in front of everyone, waiting until they were all gone, leading her outside and down to the docks, to his boat, where there had been flowers and candles and soft music. Any normal woman would have loved it. God, Emma wished she could be normal. Just once.

She gripped the glass tightly, hands shaking as her finger put the phone on speaker and pressed the call button. It rang, tinny and distant, once, twice, three times…

“Hello, you’ve reached Killian Jones.” Tears pricked her eyes at that voice, the accent smooth and rich as the polished teak on the boats he restored. She’d missed it more than she could say. “I’m afraid if you’re calling regarding the ad for the Indian, she’s been sold. If it’s Wednesday, I’m at trivia night. I can promise I’m quite uninterested in anything your selling. For the rest of it, leave me a message, and I shall return your call as soon as I may.”

She laughed a little. He’d never been able to have a short voicemail. It was so perfectly him. She hovered her finger, prepared to hang up. She’d just needed to hear his voice again, not disturb him. Then he continued.

“And if this is Boston. Well, lass, please know I still love you.” She didn’t hear the beep as the phone fell to the floor. The air left her lungs as she stared at the thing. A year, come and gone. A year, and he’d hung on. He’d stayed. Waited for her, even when no one else rationally would. Emma drank down the rest of her rum.

******

They’d met in Maine. Emma had taken a temporary transfer there, to Portland, with the large, national security firm she worked for as a consultant. It felt like a place to start over after her last relationship with Walsh had fallen apart. She’d sworn to herself that he’d be the last man to hurt her. So, with mile high walls, she went about her business. And if the office called her the ice queen, well, at least the clients appreciated it. She was firm, detached, professional. She did excellent work evaluating security system and installations, making recommendations to meet or exceed risk management needs.

And then she’d been sent to the charming village of Storybrooke, half an hour up the coast. A Mr. Jones owned a business restoring antique boats and ships, and was reputed to be the best in the business. As demand expanded, he’d moved into a new, larger facility, and his business insurance demanded he have a risk assessment done.

He reminded her of a movie star from the golden age of cinema, all artfully messy hair and cerulean eyes and rakish stubble. He wore dark wash fitted jeans that looked like they’d been painted on, and a deep blue dress shirt with a subtle paisley print to it, with a charcoal waistcoat over the top. She’d arched a brow at him when she stepped out of her company car, a non-descript black sedan. “Mr. Jones?”

“Miss Swan!” He’d brightened to see her. “Please, love, call me Killian.”

“Not your love, Mr. Jones.” Her tone remained firm and polite as she reached down and picked up her tablet. “Now, if you’ll show me your facility.”

The next few hours passed companionably as Killian gave her the tour, then left her to her work. She’d been noting the door locks on the work bay when a bottle of water appeared at her elbow. “Fancy a drink, Swan?”

It wasn’t unusual for male clients to hit on her, but usually an initial brush off like she’d made at the car killed interest. Looking up, an acid retort on her tongue, she stopped. His smile was warm, genuine, and lacking in the usually leer she got. The flip side of the coin being that clients rarely cared about her comfort. She reached out and took the bottle. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” And then he’d left her alone. 

By the time she finished, it was well after five. She stretched and looked at her notes. She’d found things that needed improving, but she’d need to do some research. Walking around, she found the man in his office, a pair of steel frame reading glasses balanced on his nose. “Mr. Jones, I’ve finished my walk through. I’ll need to do a little research to make recommendations. Can we set an appointment for a week from today?”

“Certainly.” She watched him flip open an honest to God leather bound day planner. “Or you could tell me over dinner, Swan. Here or in Portland.”

She’d give him that, he wasn’t skeevy about it. Just an expression that looked oddly hopeful. She sighed. “I don’t mix business and pleasure, Mr. Jones.”

“Pity, lass. I can guarantee it would be a pleasure.” And he waggled his eyebrows at her. Emma surprised herself by biting down a laugh. “2PM a week from today then?”

“That will work. Good night, Mr. Jones.” And she’d left.  A week later, she and an installment engineer named Eric returned and walked Jones through their findings with suggestions for improvements. He’d nodded and signed off on the work order, which officially handed things over to Eric’s team for deployment.

“So, Miss Swan, since your part of this business is concluded, are you sure I can’t talk you into dinner?” Again, he looked oddly hopeful, and again, she sighed. She just couldn’t. He’d only be another man to leave her.

“Good-bye, Mr. Jones.” She and Eric climbed back in the car and headed back toward Portland.

“You know, he seemed like a good guy.” Eric said it conversationally, fiddling with his own wedding band. He and his wife Ariel were adorable together, making Emma wish she believed such relationships were the norm rather than an occasional fluke. “Dinner wouldn’t kill you.”

Emma hadn’t responded, but when she’d walked back into her office, she’d been surprised to find a small vase with sunflowers, daisies and buttercups.  The card read, “Emma, Thank you for your diligent work. I know you’ve already turned me down twice, but I hope the third time’s the charm. My number is below. If I don’t hear from you, I shan’t trouble you again. As you wish, Killian.”

Emma fingered one buttercup, looking at the pedals just below the tattoo at her wrist. Then she picked up her phone and added his number. It took three days for her to call him.

*****

On Saturday morning, three days after she’d first called, Emma stood on her little balcony, listening to the noise bustle of the city. She’d always liked Boston, but despite living there for long periods at a stretch, she still felt like a visitor. She’d felt that everywhere. Until Storybrooke, and Killian’s loft with the view of the ocean. Until she’d woken in his arms, and gone to sleep in them. Until lazy Sunday mornings with the crossword, and Saturday sailing adventures up and down the coast.

She looked at the phone in her hand, at the two of them. And then she pressed call.

“Hello, you’ve reached Killian Jones. If it’s Friday night, I’m playing football. Not the American kind, true football. If it’s Saturday, I’ve gone out for a sail. I’ll be home sometime late Sunday. If you’ll leave your name, number, and reason for your call, I’ll return it as soon as may be done.”

Again, his voice washed over her, and she remembered their year and a half together. His laughter when they’d watch a funny movie. The sober sound when he’d spoken of losing first his brother, and then only two years later, his fiancé. The way it would get rough and low when he wanted. The way it sounded pained when he’d come deep inside her.

“And if this is Boston. Well, darling, I still bloody love you.”

Something in her broke. Voice hoarse and saying nothing else, she left her number, the new one she’d gotten when she’d fled back to Massachusetts. Then she hung up.

But patience was never her strong suit. Grabbing an overnight bag, she began shoving clothes into it with one hand while she scrolled through her contacts with the other. “Hello, Regina? It’s Emma Swan. I know, it has been a while.  I… I saw the email the other day that a permanent position had opened up with you there in Portland. I’d like to apply for that transfer, if you’ll have me.”

*****

The little bench gave her a sight line to the dock where he moored his boat up. It was late in the year for a sail this far north, but she’d been unsurprised. Killian practically bled seawater. He’d take every opportunity to sail, skirting safety to do so.

She sat there in her red leather jacket and the white sweater he’d loved so much, phone clutched in one hand and a take-out hot chocolate in the other.  Granny, who ran the diner and bed and breakfast in town, startled to find her at the counter. She’d taken her hand and pulled her through to the hall between the two.

“If you aren’t here to stay, Emma, you need to leave. Now. Before he sees you.” Granny’s voice was flint and tinder. “God knows the last time you walked away nearly killed him.”

“I’m not going anywhere again.” Emma tried for her best smile, but it waivered. “If he still wants me.”

“Fool girl.” And then Granny made her that cocoa and threw in a bear claw as well. “Get on, then.”

She saw the Jolly come in, sliding into the berth with practiced ease. She saw him and David Nolan, his best friend, moving about and securing everything. And she saw the moment when he looked down and saw his phone, when he froze partway of the creaking wood. When he waved David on and raised it to his ear, listening.

God, his face. His whole face lit up like it was Goddamn Christmas. In a moment, her phone vibrated in her hand, and she took a slow, deep breath. Then she swiped accept. “It’s bad practice to tell people on your voicemail you’re going to be away from home, Jones. It’s how people get robbed.”

“Swan.” She heard the tears in his voice as he starred out at the sea. “Bloody hell, love, I…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it, I thought you mightn’t be ready. Please, lass…”

“Killian, no. I…I knew what I had, and I still let my baggage get me. This was my fault.” Her own voice cracked. “I’d understand if…it’s been a year….”

“I’d wait for you to the ends of the earth love. Or time.” She gave a hiccupping little laugh sob at that. “God, Emma, please say I can come to you. Let me…I’ll move the business, I’ll do whatever it takes, just…”

“Turn around.” She stood, walking to the end of the dock as he slowly turned. And then he was running, sprinting down the dock to her.

Arms wrapped her in a crushing hug, both of them crying. His lips pressed to her temple, her throat, her jaw, her forehead. Everywhere but her lips. And her name, Emma, Swan, love, fell like benediction from them.

“Killian, I…” He pulled back just a little, searching her face. “I love you. I never stopped loving you, and I’m sorry…”

“Oh, Emma, I love you.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “Just tell me what you need. How we can make this work.”

She stepped back, and she saw his face start to fall. As fast as she could, she pulled off her gloves. There on her finger, silver band and blood red stone, sat the ring. He’d insisted she take it. Had told her it had been his mother’s, and then Liam’s, and it brought the wearer luck. He’d told her it was hers now, regardless. “I…I spoke to Regina yesterday. There’s a transfer opening in Portland. Permanent. I told her I wanted it.”

“Emma.” He breathed the word. And then he kissed her, passion and desire and love. Oh God, so much love. He kissed her like he wanted to slip inside her and never leave. “Swan, I…”

“Marry me.” Emma spoke over him, and he stilled. “Please, Killian. I want us. For the rest of our lives. Please say you’ll…”

“Yes. Of course, Swan. A thousand times, yes.” Bright, happy laughter rang across the water as he kissed her again, and Emma Swan finally found herself home.

******

“Hello, you’ve reached Killian and Emma. We’re not available to take your call. We might be watching a movie. Or sailing. Playing football or watching it. Or just busy.  Please leave your name and number and why you called, and one of us will get back to you soon.”


End file.
